The tip had come from a motel employee who claimed not to have seen anyone else with Abrams when he’d checked in or anytime since. Abrams himself claimed he’d come to town only to check out the trial and offer Stevenson his support, though he hadn’t actually gone to the courthouse once.
Saul Stevenson was out there. He was close. The tactics team had taken the judge home, and the entire prosecution team was under guard by the state police. Now that Stevenson had lost whatever support Abrams had meant to provide, Tom hoped he was on his own and less of a danger.
Still. Half the tactics team had gone ahead to survey the area around the judge’s home.
An hour later, Tom had wrapped up the urgent work and was hit by a sudden wave of exhaustion. Or hunger. He couldn’t tell anymore, but he had hours more work to do.
Stupidly, he wished he could see Isabelle. It wouldn’t make any difference. He’d still be exhausted and starving and stressed. And he still hadn’t come up with a plan.
“Damn it,” he muttered, scrubbing his hands hard over his face. Any decision would have to wait until the trial was over. He couldn’t concentrate on Isabelle’s problem long enough to sort it out and come up with an idea.
He’d managed to read a few newspaper articles about her father’s case in the past twenty-four hours. Beth Pozniak had disappeared three months after her father had skipped town. There’d been weeks of speculation. Assertions that she had joined her dad in some hidey-hole overseas. Theories that she’d been killed by the people her father had betrayed.
After a few weeks, the stories had slipped away. The whole thing had slipped away. A few cops had been charged with conspiracy and bribery, and they’d served a few months. But no one had ever been convicted of the murder, and only six other low-level officers had been kicked off the force.
But there was more to it. There had to be. There was a reason the FBI had flagged the file and warned against sharing any information with the Chicago Police Department. Something was very wrong with that case. He suspected Isabelle knew exactly what that was. There hadn’t been another reason to run, as far as he could tell.
He’d ask her as soon as the trial was over. And he’d try to avoid her until then. Easier said than done, when all he wanted was to fall into bed with her and sleep for twelve hours. After fucking her until neither of them could walk.
Shit, he needed food and more coffee.
Tom was just closing his laptop when his phone rang, and Hannity’s name popped up on the screen. “Everything secure?” Tom asked.
“The judge is tucked in safe and sound, but my guys found some tire tracks that we’re checking out now.”
“Where?”
“On White Ridge Road.”
Tom froze. “That’s a public road. People live there.”
“Yes, but the tracks go all the way up to an unoccupied cabin a mile past the last house.”
A mile past Isabelle’s place.
“We’re checking it out now,” Hannity said. “Figured you wouldn’t want to wait until morning.”
“No. I’ll be there in thirty.” Tom hung up and immediately called Isabelle. His racing pulse slowed a little when she answered.
“I heard about all the excitement,” she said. “You’re okay?”
“I’m good, just dead on my feet.”
“I’m truly sorry to hear that,” she said, and despite everything, Tom smiled.
“It’s worse than that,” he said. “I’m still working.”
“All right. I guess I’ll have to get off without you tonight. Desperate times and all.”
He chuckled as he grabbed his bag and left the office, drawing the attention of one of the guards, but the guy just tipped his chin in greeting as Tom passed. “Listen,” he said once he was out of earshot. “Have you seen anyone around today?”
“Just one of your men. Why?”
“We’re on pretty high alert here after that arrest. Be careful, all right?”
“It’s supposed to start snowing soon. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good. You’re all locked up?”